It's a beautiful day in Northwest Illinois today. It is March 14, and the temperature is to be 80 degrees! Sunshine, birds chirping, children outside playing. I have thanked God for such a fabulous day!
I feel miserable. Numb, or sad--I'm not sure. And I feel guilty as hell. How dare I feel this miserable on a record-breaking temperature day. Do I appreciate nothing?!?
The thing is, I do appreciated it all! How amazing is the world!? I just don't feel it. At all. I want to sleep. Not unusual because of the Fibro and the Chronic Fatigue, but this is different. There are things that need to get done. I look at them, hate them, then don't do them. Two floors need scrubbing, entertainment center needs dusting, legs need shaving. Not getting done. I do the laundry. Simply because my son's school has a dress code. And more guilt.
When my son is home I am attentive, joking, always making sure the depression mask is covered by the LOL mask. And at some point, that wears me down, and the very thing I was trying to hide from him spills out all over. He hates when I cry. I think he feels helpless, or that it's his fault. Of course, most of the time it is not.
I've been taking anti-depressants of various types for 26 years. In 2002, or so, I happened upon a psychopharmacologist, and together we tried various combinations to try to conquer my various ailments. It took about 8 years to find a winner for my depression/anxiety. And, as it turns out, it also helps with the Fibromyalgia pain. But night time was a bigger challenge. I have Bi-Polar II, and my main mania symptom is mega racing thoughts at nights. We found one med that worked beautifully, but as the dose increased, so did my weight. We decided to try different combinations that mimicked what the previous had done. After months and months, we ended up back at square one, but a lower dose, coupled with something else. So far, so good.
So what is going on?? I am alone, couple-wise. But, generally I enjoy my own company. I had surgery six weeks ago on my shoulder, and am finally at the "toss the sling" stage, and moving well. There is always pain in the healing, but why should that bother me? I live with pain every day. My budget is slowly becoming manageable, with a couple of exceptions. We're coming up on a dry stretch financially simply due to the space between pays, but I've been down that road before. Nothing is different that at any other time when I am feeling like a stoned hippie, wishing peace and goodness to all. Except, I'm not feeling the peace or the goodness. And to make me feel even more guilty, I am administrator of two support Facebook pages that encourage positive thinking. How hypocritical of me to post puppies and butterflies when I feel like dung and maggots? AAAaaaarrrgghh!!
The answer is, I guess, remember this is a phase. God is always with me. He has brought me through some horrible times, and I am the stronger for it. I will put the wet laundry into the dryer. I will create more support posts and give other struggling people a lift or a giggle. I may even vacuum.
After I take another nap.................. or a giggle. I may even vacuum.
After I take another nap........
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Saturday, February 18, 2012
ROOM TO JUDGE
Last Saturday Whitney Houston, iconic pop singer, passed away unexpectedly. Upon seeing it scroll across the bottom of my TV screen, I was stunned. And yet not. At just a couple years younger than me, the thought that death could be so close was unsettling, even though it was most likely due to her lifestyle--her choices in spouse, "support" circle, and recreation. How many of us speculated, even to ourselves, that her lifestyle would kill her.
Today, as I get reacquainted with her work, it occurred to me, that my lifestyle could easily be endangering my life. In fact, my recent doctor appointments would suggest just that. I am 100 pounds over an even remotely healthy weight. As a result I struggle with high blood pressure, borderline cholesterol, and activity induced asthma. My "drugs" of choice? Birthday Cake Ice Cream, Reese's--sugar in general. Poor diet. No fruit or veggies because they would go bad before I could eat them all, and I can't afford to waste one cent. So, that leaves alot of peanut butter sandwiches, not on whole wheat because I am the only family member (of two) that will eat it. And NO activity. Fibromyalgia limits what I can do, as does the asthma. It just seems ridiculous to me to exercise for 30 minutes to be unable to move without searing pain for a week.
So, you see I am in no position to judge her life, her struggles, her choices. I am no position to judge anyone. Ever.
As social media does, it has run this unfortunate story into the ground. At first, as I said, I was stunned and saddened to have a true songbird stifled. Then the comparison pictures started circulating. Pictures of Ms. Houston next to starving children stating tears are shed for her and not them. Or her picture next to the coffins of our fallen war heroes, again stating our heroes are not grieved. I take offense to both.
It is like apples and oranges. One set is with us every single day. Children starving everywhere, even in our own neighborhoods. It is angering and gut wrenching. I've never understood how a game show can give away a million dollars, while people starve.
The other, our fallen war heroes, are again--at least for me--present in my consciousness daily. I am honored to know many that have fought, and by God's grace returned to us. I can't imagine being the parent to see the uniforms walk up their sidewalk, knowing why they are there. As I said, this is an ever present thought, because, you see, my 15 year old has wanted to enter the service since age nine. And I knew when he first told me, he was serious. At first it was Navy. So much so that the gals in the school office called him "Navy Nick". For a couple years now, it has been the Marines. So serious is he, that the school counselor had a Marine come to the school for my Freshman boy. That's just not done. He is going to be a Marine, plain and simple. So, in 3 1//2 years, if the world continues on the track that it is, he will be in a war. And that makes the fallen of this war a punch in the gut everytime I hear of, or see coverage of hundreds of caskets draped in our Flag.
So don't you dare accuse me of not shedding tears for our fallen.
Apples to oranges. Ms. Houston's passing was a shock, much like waiting for the toast to pop up, then jumping when it does. She was young. She was famous, not just for her life's challenges, but for a dynamic voice that many have tried to duplicate, but have not even come close. A beautiful, young, gifted woman that suddenly passes will send shock waves whether she is famous or not. What makes her passing different is the fame, the press, and social media. I have chosen to avoid the televised funeral because I believe funerals are for family and closest of friends. I am neither. I am simply a fan. And I have shed some tears...for her music. Much of it affected me deeply as a young woman, not knowing what she was to this world, or what she was doing in this world. Belting out "The Greatest Love of All" through tears still reminds me who that young woman was, and why she was here.
Thank you Ms. Houston, for your unique service to the world. Rest now.
Today, as I get reacquainted with her work, it occurred to me, that my lifestyle could easily be endangering my life. In fact, my recent doctor appointments would suggest just that. I am 100 pounds over an even remotely healthy weight. As a result I struggle with high blood pressure, borderline cholesterol, and activity induced asthma. My "drugs" of choice? Birthday Cake Ice Cream, Reese's--sugar in general. Poor diet. No fruit or veggies because they would go bad before I could eat them all, and I can't afford to waste one cent. So, that leaves alot of peanut butter sandwiches, not on whole wheat because I am the only family member (of two) that will eat it. And NO activity. Fibromyalgia limits what I can do, as does the asthma. It just seems ridiculous to me to exercise for 30 minutes to be unable to move without searing pain for a week.
So, you see I am in no position to judge her life, her struggles, her choices. I am no position to judge anyone. Ever.
As social media does, it has run this unfortunate story into the ground. At first, as I said, I was stunned and saddened to have a true songbird stifled. Then the comparison pictures started circulating. Pictures of Ms. Houston next to starving children stating tears are shed for her and not them. Or her picture next to the coffins of our fallen war heroes, again stating our heroes are not grieved. I take offense to both.
It is like apples and oranges. One set is with us every single day. Children starving everywhere, even in our own neighborhoods. It is angering and gut wrenching. I've never understood how a game show can give away a million dollars, while people starve.
The other, our fallen war heroes, are again--at least for me--present in my consciousness daily. I am honored to know many that have fought, and by God's grace returned to us. I can't imagine being the parent to see the uniforms walk up their sidewalk, knowing why they are there. As I said, this is an ever present thought, because, you see, my 15 year old has wanted to enter the service since age nine. And I knew when he first told me, he was serious. At first it was Navy. So much so that the gals in the school office called him "Navy Nick". For a couple years now, it has been the Marines. So serious is he, that the school counselor had a Marine come to the school for my Freshman boy. That's just not done. He is going to be a Marine, plain and simple. So, in 3 1//2 years, if the world continues on the track that it is, he will be in a war. And that makes the fallen of this war a punch in the gut everytime I hear of, or see coverage of hundreds of caskets draped in our Flag.
So don't you dare accuse me of not shedding tears for our fallen.
Apples to oranges. Ms. Houston's passing was a shock, much like waiting for the toast to pop up, then jumping when it does. She was young. She was famous, not just for her life's challenges, but for a dynamic voice that many have tried to duplicate, but have not even come close. A beautiful, young, gifted woman that suddenly passes will send shock waves whether she is famous or not. What makes her passing different is the fame, the press, and social media. I have chosen to avoid the televised funeral because I believe funerals are for family and closest of friends. I am neither. I am simply a fan. And I have shed some tears...for her music. Much of it affected me deeply as a young woman, not knowing what she was to this world, or what she was doing in this world. Belting out "The Greatest Love of All" through tears still reminds me who that young woman was, and why she was here.
Thank you Ms. Houston, for your unique service to the world. Rest now.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Time and Christmas
It is the season of goodwill, celebration, and family. It is the time, for Christian children to learn the story of a King born, and of a fat man in a red, flannel suit that scurries down chimneys and leaves gifts beyond their wildest dreams. The two seem worlds apart, but history shows that without the love for the Christ child, there would be no St. Nicholas.
I remember making lists, as a child, going through the J.C.Penny catalog and circling toys, and turning down pages so that there would be no doubt as to my desires. Writing the list for Santa was specific, with page numbers and all. And Santa always got it right. And how! I wasn't aware until adulthood that not everyone gets 20 presents from Santa every year. I would relay my treasures to classmates after Christmas break and get curious looks. No wonder they treated me like the plague.
As an adult, when I became a stepmother, I took on the top secret mission of mailing letters to Santa. As my stepdaughter watched, I wrote his name on the envelope, attached the stamp and put it by the door to mail the next day. When she left for school, the letter was removed from the mailbox, stamp retrieved, and letter kept in my wallet. After all, I was part of the Jolly Fat Guy club. I'm not sure if my son wrote letters. How odd that I can't remember that.....
When the days of Christmas arrived, I, along with my children later, practically burst with anticipation. Well, in my case, I anticipated actually receiving the gift, since I'd already found the stash, and knew every gift I was getting. Those days of gift exchanges and huge meals were as much a part of Christmas for us as the actual Birth. Grandparents and Aunts spoiled, parents, too. At the end, everyone was exhausted, but satisfied.
So much happens over the years. Celebrations that once included numbers near 20 are now pared down as loved ones have passed or become ill. Gathering places are lost due to divorce. These changes have been the hardest of all the changes my life has presented me with. One Christmas, it's hoopla at Grandma's, then a quiet gathering at Mom's, and now a trip to the nursing home to see Mom.
Gift-wise, I make sure I am able to get Nick his birthday and Christmas gift, which fall nine days apart. They are not always on time, but they are given. He always knows what he's getting because he has his father's persuasive nature, and always gets it out of me somehow. Well, that, and I have to compare notes with his Dad, and just as the Grinch's heart grew three sizes that day, so do Nick's ears when I'm talking to his Dad.
Yes, much has changed. But even when the loneliness of my "new" Christmas tries to grip me, I remember why there were ever toy sections in the catalog, sneaky Santa letter doings, or eating more food in one sitting since...well...Thanksgiving. The Birth of our Saviour, Jesus Christ. The one God sent to a poor couple to teach us, lead us, and die for our sins. What a glorious gift!
However, in the Santa sense of the season, I did something recently I haven't done in perhaps 35 years. I put pen to paper and made my Christmas list. The first things that came to mind were food, bills, gas, and I thought, NO! What, Ann, do you want? Desire to have that you would not spend your money on? Quite a concept for someone who has been living down to her last 12 cents each pay period, and still comes up short on something. What did I want? Well the first item was gas cards, and I know that's a need not a want, but watching the gas needle has become a source of panic for me, so it's sort of a want, right? Next, and this will surprise no one that knows me, Facebook Credits, so that playing my frustrating, addicting games bring a bit less frustration. Quit playing? Well, that's crazy talk! Movies. Lots of new releases that I've heard so much about, but can't afford to see in the theatre. Music. Whether CD's or iTunes, it matters not. A "Straight Talk" phone. More practical, more features. An 18" box cut gold chain for my Black Hills Gold Cross--I miss it around my neck. And then I really did it. I wrote "IPad". Nonsense, I say! I probably would not even know how to use it, but it looks amazing, and isn't that what dreaming is? Wishes for amazing things.
Of course there will be no presents under my tree Christmas morning, but now that I've identified specific "wants", maybe I can squeeze them in between utilities, rent, food, school lunch money, Basketball games for Nick's pleasure, gas....Okay, it's going to take awhile, and the IPad....really?? The point is, I validated myself by doing that. I deserve to get wants as much as anyone.
This Christmas Day I will drive to Galena to visit with Mom. I will be home by 3 o'clock. Nick will be with his Dad--thank goodness--celebrating with his new family, and some old, and making memories he will carry with him all of his life. He plans of becoming a Marine in 3 1/2 years. I pray those memories give him joy during his times away from home.
Merry Christmas everyone. We celebrate the birth of our King in six days. Are you ready?
I remember making lists, as a child, going through the J.C.Penny catalog and circling toys, and turning down pages so that there would be no doubt as to my desires. Writing the list for Santa was specific, with page numbers and all. And Santa always got it right. And how! I wasn't aware until adulthood that not everyone gets 20 presents from Santa every year. I would relay my treasures to classmates after Christmas break and get curious looks. No wonder they treated me like the plague.
As an adult, when I became a stepmother, I took on the top secret mission of mailing letters to Santa. As my stepdaughter watched, I wrote his name on the envelope, attached the stamp and put it by the door to mail the next day. When she left for school, the letter was removed from the mailbox, stamp retrieved, and letter kept in my wallet. After all, I was part of the Jolly Fat Guy club. I'm not sure if my son wrote letters. How odd that I can't remember that.....
When the days of Christmas arrived, I, along with my children later, practically burst with anticipation. Well, in my case, I anticipated actually receiving the gift, since I'd already found the stash, and knew every gift I was getting. Those days of gift exchanges and huge meals were as much a part of Christmas for us as the actual Birth. Grandparents and Aunts spoiled, parents, too. At the end, everyone was exhausted, but satisfied.
So much happens over the years. Celebrations that once included numbers near 20 are now pared down as loved ones have passed or become ill. Gathering places are lost due to divorce. These changes have been the hardest of all the changes my life has presented me with. One Christmas, it's hoopla at Grandma's, then a quiet gathering at Mom's, and now a trip to the nursing home to see Mom.
Gift-wise, I make sure I am able to get Nick his birthday and Christmas gift, which fall nine days apart. They are not always on time, but they are given. He always knows what he's getting because he has his father's persuasive nature, and always gets it out of me somehow. Well, that, and I have to compare notes with his Dad, and just as the Grinch's heart grew three sizes that day, so do Nick's ears when I'm talking to his Dad.
Yes, much has changed. But even when the loneliness of my "new" Christmas tries to grip me, I remember why there were ever toy sections in the catalog, sneaky Santa letter doings, or eating more food in one sitting since...well...Thanksgiving. The Birth of our Saviour, Jesus Christ. The one God sent to a poor couple to teach us, lead us, and die for our sins. What a glorious gift!
However, in the Santa sense of the season, I did something recently I haven't done in perhaps 35 years. I put pen to paper and made my Christmas list. The first things that came to mind were food, bills, gas, and I thought, NO! What, Ann, do you want? Desire to have that you would not spend your money on? Quite a concept for someone who has been living down to her last 12 cents each pay period, and still comes up short on something. What did I want? Well the first item was gas cards, and I know that's a need not a want, but watching the gas needle has become a source of panic for me, so it's sort of a want, right? Next, and this will surprise no one that knows me, Facebook Credits, so that playing my frustrating, addicting games bring a bit less frustration. Quit playing? Well, that's crazy talk! Movies. Lots of new releases that I've heard so much about, but can't afford to see in the theatre. Music. Whether CD's or iTunes, it matters not. A "Straight Talk" phone. More practical, more features. An 18" box cut gold chain for my Black Hills Gold Cross--I miss it around my neck. And then I really did it. I wrote "IPad". Nonsense, I say! I probably would not even know how to use it, but it looks amazing, and isn't that what dreaming is? Wishes for amazing things.
Of course there will be no presents under my tree Christmas morning, but now that I've identified specific "wants", maybe I can squeeze them in between utilities, rent, food, school lunch money, Basketball games for Nick's pleasure, gas....Okay, it's going to take awhile, and the IPad....really?? The point is, I validated myself by doing that. I deserve to get wants as much as anyone.
This Christmas Day I will drive to Galena to visit with Mom. I will be home by 3 o'clock. Nick will be with his Dad--thank goodness--celebrating with his new family, and some old, and making memories he will carry with him all of his life. He plans of becoming a Marine in 3 1/2 years. I pray those memories give him joy during his times away from home.
Merry Christmas everyone. We celebrate the birth of our King in six days. Are you ready?
Sunday, November 6, 2011
I find myself with too much on my plate. For a gal with a small plate, and usually little on it, I am feeling a bit overwhelmed.
It seems that people are becoming ill or passing at breakneck speed. My own Mother, included. A friend that is a bit of a kindred soul that I met through Facebook, has just lost her mother. This saddens me deeply. I suppose my mother's declining health figures into that sorrow, but I am hurting for her nevertheless.
This morning, while watching a Sunday Morning show, tribute was paid to a long time writer, that passed earlier in the week. It was also announced that two personalities from my childhood have cancer...one is now is Hospice care. When did it become so, so common to hear the word cancer? What has happened?
A post on Facebook (what else?) asked for prayers for a very prominent Freeport couple involved in a car accident yesterday. Not only is the woman, a local political force to be reckoned with, but she is Aunt to my classmates, Sister to my Mom's old boss. Sometimes I think God must get overwhelmed with all the prayers being lifted up. But, lifted up, they are.
Every other Sunday my son returns home from a weekend with his Dad. These are not easy days. Once he actually get into the apartment, it seems to hit him that he is back in the land of "I'm doing the best I can." And this can result in anger. I try to tell myself he's not angry with me, just the situation, but when he is sullen or punching something that is broken, that I can not afford to replace right now, I feel an overwhelming cloud of guilt. I truly am doing the best I can, living on Disability and Child Support/Alimony. We live in a small, but attractive apartment, decorated nicely, tidy, but not always spic and span, and reeking of love. Yes, that's me reeking. I know that deep inside of him he is not reeking, perhaps, but at least a little smelly with love. But, he is a growing, hungry, hungry boy, and keeping snacky things here at all times is impossible. He told me a tale of having four bowls of cereal at his Dad's and that is so "out there" for me, it's ridiculous. All I can really do is hope that after his disappointment passes, he will recognize that "doing the best I can" isn't awful.
On a different note, I am proud to say that I am a contributor to "Fibro Affirmations", a site to lend support to those of us fighting this frustrating disease. So far, the pieces I have sent have been well received, and the page owner is happy with me. (Now if I could just get a paying gig) As usual, I try to lend a bit of humor to our unpredictable disease.
Last, but surely not least...after nearly being knocked over by the idea, I have started my own page on Facebook. It is called "Bucket of Invisibles" and it is geared toward those fighting multiple and/or invisible diseases. There are so many! We all look untouched by illness, therefore we are ignored, made fun of, and called liars. I felt this page was needed to give these people a place to visit that offers smiles, inspiration, and interaction with others fighting the same battle. It has been one week and one day, and I have 62 "likes", and thousands and thousands of views. I am, if I may be so bold, proud. I feel I have a purpose. I am able to give some relief, if even for a moment.
All of these things racing through my mind, are tugging at my heart and mind. And believe me, having a cluttered mind is a Fibro fighter's demise! So I thank you for letting me share a piece of my clutter, therefore lightening my mess!
Deep breaths....this is life.
It seems that people are becoming ill or passing at breakneck speed. My own Mother, included. A friend that is a bit of a kindred soul that I met through Facebook, has just lost her mother. This saddens me deeply. I suppose my mother's declining health figures into that sorrow, but I am hurting for her nevertheless.
This morning, while watching a Sunday Morning show, tribute was paid to a long time writer, that passed earlier in the week. It was also announced that two personalities from my childhood have cancer...one is now is Hospice care. When did it become so, so common to hear the word cancer? What has happened?
A post on Facebook (what else?) asked for prayers for a very prominent Freeport couple involved in a car accident yesterday. Not only is the woman, a local political force to be reckoned with, but she is Aunt to my classmates, Sister to my Mom's old boss. Sometimes I think God must get overwhelmed with all the prayers being lifted up. But, lifted up, they are.
Every other Sunday my son returns home from a weekend with his Dad. These are not easy days. Once he actually get into the apartment, it seems to hit him that he is back in the land of "I'm doing the best I can." And this can result in anger. I try to tell myself he's not angry with me, just the situation, but when he is sullen or punching something that is broken, that I can not afford to replace right now, I feel an overwhelming cloud of guilt. I truly am doing the best I can, living on Disability and Child Support/Alimony. We live in a small, but attractive apartment, decorated nicely, tidy, but not always spic and span, and reeking of love. Yes, that's me reeking. I know that deep inside of him he is not reeking, perhaps, but at least a little smelly with love. But, he is a growing, hungry, hungry boy, and keeping snacky things here at all times is impossible. He told me a tale of having four bowls of cereal at his Dad's and that is so "out there" for me, it's ridiculous. All I can really do is hope that after his disappointment passes, he will recognize that "doing the best I can" isn't awful.
On a different note, I am proud to say that I am a contributor to "Fibro Affirmations", a site to lend support to those of us fighting this frustrating disease. So far, the pieces I have sent have been well received, and the page owner is happy with me. (Now if I could just get a paying gig) As usual, I try to lend a bit of humor to our unpredictable disease.
Last, but surely not least...after nearly being knocked over by the idea, I have started my own page on Facebook. It is called "Bucket of Invisibles" and it is geared toward those fighting multiple and/or invisible diseases. There are so many! We all look untouched by illness, therefore we are ignored, made fun of, and called liars. I felt this page was needed to give these people a place to visit that offers smiles, inspiration, and interaction with others fighting the same battle. It has been one week and one day, and I have 62 "likes", and thousands and thousands of views. I am, if I may be so bold, proud. I feel I have a purpose. I am able to give some relief, if even for a moment.
All of these things racing through my mind, are tugging at my heart and mind. And believe me, having a cluttered mind is a Fibro fighter's demise! So I thank you for letting me share a piece of my clutter, therefore lightening my mess!
Deep breaths....this is life.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Fifty Years Gone By
It is the afternoon of the eve of #51. Naturally, my mind is scanning through the past fifty years. And I am, at once, amused, dismayed, and proud. I have survived much, achieved much, and lost some.
Some experiences I must laugh at. Such as the time I entered a grocery store, escaping from a torrential downpour, to find--after several minutes of shopping--that a young child was staring in horror at my feet. Clinging to his mother, he exclaimed, "Mama what is it?" "It" was my stylish canvas shoes on "agitate", foaming with every step due to lack of proper rinsing after a good cleaning. Or the time I excitedly attempted to jump up on the stage area of my favorite dance club, only to fall flat on my face because my jeans were so tight, they did not allow for bending at the hip. I even have to smile about the blood pressure machine flashing "Please fix me" while having violent child labor due to being over-dosed on labor inducing meds. I laugh because, really, could these happen to anyone but me? Love-able, sometimes ditsy, me? Possibly, but not likely.
I am a survivor. Of this I am proud.
As enter my fifty first year, I can say I've survived, child abuse--emotional, physical and sexual-(I've been told). Rape, bullying, two nervous breakdowns, divorce, poverty at my own hand, and near poverty due to divorce. I've been forced to sell the house, once built with me in mind, and have moved my son and myself into a much smaller apartment. Everyday I live with invisible diseases not understood, or believed by much of anyone, but which have affected every corner of my life. Yet, I get out of bed every day and give it all another shot.
I've survived too much booze, too many men, being bruised by some of those men, and used by most. And somehow, I've come out of that still liking men, and believing that romance exists.
Like everyone, I've lost people I loved; one of the hardest being my first "real" boyfriend.
I've watched my father live out his promise to drink himself to death. I've seen my mother go from movie/gambling/shop-aholic to speechless, helpless stroke victim.
Yes, I've survived much. More than some, much, much less than others. For all the pain, I've gained wisdom, compassion, empathy, and tolerance. These things have helped me become the woman I am today, which I think is a pretty cool gal.
My greatest accomplishment is a young man, nearly 15 now. He is strong, strong-willed, smart, smart-mouthed, athletic, funny, loyal, and kind. He is also short-tempered, and sometimes very, very, angry. He, too, has survived much. If it is possible to love another human being too much, then I am guilty of over-loving my son. He is, and always will be...my best guy.
Tomorrow I will turn 51 year old without ado. It will be Saturday. I will be trying to figure out how to keep the electricity on, and listing the myriad of grocery items to buy when the long anticipated money "rolls" in.
However, I will know in my heart that being given birthday number 51 is my reward for making it through birthdays 1 - 50.
Some experiences I must laugh at. Such as the time I entered a grocery store, escaping from a torrential downpour, to find--after several minutes of shopping--that a young child was staring in horror at my feet. Clinging to his mother, he exclaimed, "Mama what is it?" "It" was my stylish canvas shoes on "agitate", foaming with every step due to lack of proper rinsing after a good cleaning. Or the time I excitedly attempted to jump up on the stage area of my favorite dance club, only to fall flat on my face because my jeans were so tight, they did not allow for bending at the hip. I even have to smile about the blood pressure machine flashing "Please fix me" while having violent child labor due to being over-dosed on labor inducing meds. I laugh because, really, could these happen to anyone but me? Love-able, sometimes ditsy, me? Possibly, but not likely.
I am a survivor. Of this I am proud.
As enter my fifty first year, I can say I've survived, child abuse--emotional, physical and sexual-(I've been told). Rape, bullying, two nervous breakdowns, divorce, poverty at my own hand, and near poverty due to divorce. I've been forced to sell the house, once built with me in mind, and have moved my son and myself into a much smaller apartment. Everyday I live with invisible diseases not understood, or believed by much of anyone, but which have affected every corner of my life. Yet, I get out of bed every day and give it all another shot.
I've survived too much booze, too many men, being bruised by some of those men, and used by most. And somehow, I've come out of that still liking men, and believing that romance exists.
Like everyone, I've lost people I loved; one of the hardest being my first "real" boyfriend.
I've watched my father live out his promise to drink himself to death. I've seen my mother go from movie/gambling/shop-aholic to speechless, helpless stroke victim.
Yes, I've survived much. More than some, much, much less than others. For all the pain, I've gained wisdom, compassion, empathy, and tolerance. These things have helped me become the woman I am today, which I think is a pretty cool gal.
My greatest accomplishment is a young man, nearly 15 now. He is strong, strong-willed, smart, smart-mouthed, athletic, funny, loyal, and kind. He is also short-tempered, and sometimes very, very, angry. He, too, has survived much. If it is possible to love another human being too much, then I am guilty of over-loving my son. He is, and always will be...my best guy.
Tomorrow I will turn 51 year old without ado. It will be Saturday. I will be trying to figure out how to keep the electricity on, and listing the myriad of grocery items to buy when the long anticipated money "rolls" in.
However, I will know in my heart that being given birthday number 51 is my reward for making it through birthdays 1 - 50.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
LIVING AROUND IT OR "JUST DO IT"
After rereading comments to this blog, it seems I have dropped the ball. I have written about things going on in my life, and topics that have spurred my interest. I have paid tribute to loved ones, and our country. However, as noted by one comentor, I have not written about how I "live around it."
I spent some time thinking about that. I coined that phrase because I believe that the illnesses aren't going to budge, so I must live in and around what they throw at me. I have bitterly accepted my physical limitations. Once teased for having broad shoulders and being able to lift 100 pounds, I now have...broad shoulders. Once able to run a mean sprint, I can no longer run. Not that I want to...never did care for it.
I refuse to believe, however, that I have limitations mentally. There are medications and counselling available to keep my mind sharp, witty, and smart. Just don't ask me what I walked into a room for... Being able to afford the necessary meds is a struggle at times, but thanks to social network and the kind supportive words of friends and family, I can limp through.
But, how do I "live around it"? Other than getting out of bed at the pace I am able, showering when my pain level permits it (without danger of falling), and taking whatever pain medication is necessary (when available), I don't have any steps or wise words to aid others. I just survive. I would say "live", because I am, in fact, alive, but doing what I do on a daily basis hardly qualifies as "living". That is probably as much due to finances as it is to health. Perhaps if I had any extra money, I'd venture out once in awhile. But everything must be calculated...right down to the gas in the truck. So, I get up, survey the land, do what I can, then I sit down and connect with others. Until sitting hurts. Then I get up and shuffle a chore or two. Until that hurts, at which point I lie down and hope for some rest.
Rest? REST?? What did I do all day to need rest? Survive. Usually on three hours sleep, through level 7 (and above) pain, with dizziness and brain fog. Now that's multitasking!
So, I would tell you to live as best fits you. Try to block out the "shoulds", and embrace the moments that make you smile. And always, always be open to help to others with their pain. Knowing the you've helped someone else to "live" really is living!
I spent some time thinking about that. I coined that phrase because I believe that the illnesses aren't going to budge, so I must live in and around what they throw at me. I have bitterly accepted my physical limitations. Once teased for having broad shoulders and being able to lift 100 pounds, I now have...broad shoulders. Once able to run a mean sprint, I can no longer run. Not that I want to...never did care for it.
I refuse to believe, however, that I have limitations mentally. There are medications and counselling available to keep my mind sharp, witty, and smart. Just don't ask me what I walked into a room for... Being able to afford the necessary meds is a struggle at times, but thanks to social network and the kind supportive words of friends and family, I can limp through.
But, how do I "live around it"? Other than getting out of bed at the pace I am able, showering when my pain level permits it (without danger of falling), and taking whatever pain medication is necessary (when available), I don't have any steps or wise words to aid others. I just survive. I would say "live", because I am, in fact, alive, but doing what I do on a daily basis hardly qualifies as "living". That is probably as much due to finances as it is to health. Perhaps if I had any extra money, I'd venture out once in awhile. But everything must be calculated...right down to the gas in the truck. So, I get up, survey the land, do what I can, then I sit down and connect with others. Until sitting hurts. Then I get up and shuffle a chore or two. Until that hurts, at which point I lie down and hope for some rest.
Rest? REST?? What did I do all day to need rest? Survive. Usually on three hours sleep, through level 7 (and above) pain, with dizziness and brain fog. Now that's multitasking!
So, I would tell you to live as best fits you. Try to block out the "shoulds", and embrace the moments that make you smile. And always, always be open to help to others with their pain. Knowing the you've helped someone else to "live" really is living!
Monday, July 18, 2011
A Worry Rethunk
I spend a modest amount of time worrying that people I meet will not accept me because I am currently not employed due to disability. Because my disabilities are invisible, that I could be disabled brings a look of disbelief to most people's faces. In fact, recently, when asked if disabled for an assistance form, the woman taking the application stopped in her tracks when I said 'yes'. And for the first time, perhaps since being diagnosed, her voice softened, and she put her pen down and was genuinely interested in my story. I felt blessed!
The fact is, that I did work. Unpaid, for nine, and paid for nineteen. Yes, not as much as some, and more than many. Work conditions during the unpaid were emotionally and physically taxing. Work conditions during the first 11 of the paid were emotionally and physically damaging. Had I been treated like a human being, rather than a lowly slave at either of those jobs, I am certain I would not be disabled today.
During my preteen through late teens I worked around the homestead doing whatever chore my parents needed done. Didn't every kid growing up in the 70's? Of course. But my father was an obsessive workaholic, and expected that everyone else was, too. His lists of outdoor chores seemed endless, and on many a summer day, left me with bloodied hands and nasty sunburns...on top of nasty sunburns. And after he meticulously reviewed the work, came screaming in my face proclaiming that I was dumb and lazy because I'd hoed into some onions. And as my teenage schoolmates drove by laughing a waving-on their way to swim-I hoed, and weeded, and harvested that damn garden. Every day, all day. Well, that is, when I wasn't cleaning out the garage/basement, or picking apples, or weeding, or picking blooms off of hundreds of petunias. Or planting them. Or helping him haul 100lb stones to landscape. Or mowing a 6ft hill.
During my late teens and twenties, I worked at the leading insurance company in the area. If you had office experience when exiting school, you worked there or at the factory offices. Unfortunately, this company prided themselves on herding, and treating their employees like cattle. Little support, tons of work, and few kudos. This job would define my future physical state in a matter of a few months. My emotional state had already been defined, but this job sealed it. Emotionally, however, it would also land me in help's lap.
I had only worked there for a year, when I began to feel ill. I had an awful cold, scorching sore throat, and was very tired. I was warned that missing work would get me fired, so I muddled through, feeling worse and worse. During a conversation with my Mom, she noticed a tint. Shocked, she had me stare into her eyes and tilt my head back so she could examine both. Yellow. Eyeballs and neck a sickening yellow. Had no one at work noticed this? I went to the Dr. the next day, and as he lay me back to feel my tummy, he could see my swollen liver. He told me to go home and wait for some tests, but by the time I got home, he was on the phone demanding my Mom to get me to the hospital. I'd had mono for months. Because it was left untreated, my liver became swollen. Hepatits. I spent two weeks in the hospital, and was ordered away from work for two months. In a shake-my-head sidenote, my co-workers were under the impression that I had the mumps. A panic ran through the department as everyone tried to remember if they'd had them. Upon finding out that I had something much more serious, they were relieved. At least they weren't going to get sick. As soon as they found out it was Hepatitis-it turned out to be non-infectious-the pressure to get me back to work began. After just two week home, I got phone calls from co-workers-on behalf of my supervisor-to "get back in here". After several harassing calls, Mom called work to talk to my super. The super had the gall to snipe at my mother about my coming back to work immediately. I was still getting dizzy getting up and around! Two more weeks passed, and because of the phone calls, the doctor was called to see if I could return to work. The okay was given as long as I did sit down work. On day three of my return I was put back on my feet...a six hour trek every day. I blacked out many times, but was blown off when I reported it. You see, mumps everyone understood. Hepatitis they did not. Therefore, it did not exist.
My mother was told that I would never be the same. I'd never have the stamina I'd once had. I might not be able to fight colds and such as efficiently. And I was never the same. Ever again. There was no name for that result at that time. Today they call it Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.
So, yes, I have worked. Since those jobs I've been a nanny, a warehouse stocker, a carpet salesperson, a water department employee, and several more insurance gigs. Had I not given birth to the light of my life, triggering Fibromyalgia, I might still be working. But, for whatever reason, God has seen fit for me to be at home.
So, perhaps I need to rethink my worry, and wear my disabilities like a badge. After all, I fought long and hard to get them.
The fact is, that I did work. Unpaid, for nine, and paid for nineteen. Yes, not as much as some, and more than many. Work conditions during the unpaid were emotionally and physically taxing. Work conditions during the first 11 of the paid were emotionally and physically damaging. Had I been treated like a human being, rather than a lowly slave at either of those jobs, I am certain I would not be disabled today.
During my preteen through late teens I worked around the homestead doing whatever chore my parents needed done. Didn't every kid growing up in the 70's? Of course. But my father was an obsessive workaholic, and expected that everyone else was, too. His lists of outdoor chores seemed endless, and on many a summer day, left me with bloodied hands and nasty sunburns...on top of nasty sunburns. And after he meticulously reviewed the work, came screaming in my face proclaiming that I was dumb and lazy because I'd hoed into some onions. And as my teenage schoolmates drove by laughing a waving-on their way to swim-I hoed, and weeded, and harvested that damn garden. Every day, all day. Well, that is, when I wasn't cleaning out the garage/basement, or picking apples, or weeding, or picking blooms off of hundreds of petunias. Or planting them. Or helping him haul 100lb stones to landscape. Or mowing a 6ft hill.
During my late teens and twenties, I worked at the leading insurance company in the area. If you had office experience when exiting school, you worked there or at the factory offices. Unfortunately, this company prided themselves on herding, and treating their employees like cattle. Little support, tons of work, and few kudos. This job would define my future physical state in a matter of a few months. My emotional state had already been defined, but this job sealed it. Emotionally, however, it would also land me in help's lap.
I had only worked there for a year, when I began to feel ill. I had an awful cold, scorching sore throat, and was very tired. I was warned that missing work would get me fired, so I muddled through, feeling worse and worse. During a conversation with my Mom, she noticed a tint. Shocked, she had me stare into her eyes and tilt my head back so she could examine both. Yellow. Eyeballs and neck a sickening yellow. Had no one at work noticed this? I went to the Dr. the next day, and as he lay me back to feel my tummy, he could see my swollen liver. He told me to go home and wait for some tests, but by the time I got home, he was on the phone demanding my Mom to get me to the hospital. I'd had mono for months. Because it was left untreated, my liver became swollen. Hepatits. I spent two weeks in the hospital, and was ordered away from work for two months. In a shake-my-head sidenote, my co-workers were under the impression that I had the mumps. A panic ran through the department as everyone tried to remember if they'd had them. Upon finding out that I had something much more serious, they were relieved. At least they weren't going to get sick. As soon as they found out it was Hepatitis-it turned out to be non-infectious-the pressure to get me back to work began. After just two week home, I got phone calls from co-workers-on behalf of my supervisor-to "get back in here". After several harassing calls, Mom called work to talk to my super. The super had the gall to snipe at my mother about my coming back to work immediately. I was still getting dizzy getting up and around! Two more weeks passed, and because of the phone calls, the doctor was called to see if I could return to work. The okay was given as long as I did sit down work. On day three of my return I was put back on my feet...a six hour trek every day. I blacked out many times, but was blown off when I reported it. You see, mumps everyone understood. Hepatitis they did not. Therefore, it did not exist.
My mother was told that I would never be the same. I'd never have the stamina I'd once had. I might not be able to fight colds and such as efficiently. And I was never the same. Ever again. There was no name for that result at that time. Today they call it Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.
So, yes, I have worked. Since those jobs I've been a nanny, a warehouse stocker, a carpet salesperson, a water department employee, and several more insurance gigs. Had I not given birth to the light of my life, triggering Fibromyalgia, I might still be working. But, for whatever reason, God has seen fit for me to be at home.
So, perhaps I need to rethink my worry, and wear my disabilities like a badge. After all, I fought long and hard to get them.
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